


Sentinels

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drama, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-14
Updated: 2006-06-13
Packaged: 2018-09-06 10:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8746315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Not all of the demons they fight are on the outside, and some of their enemies are closer than they want to imagine.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Sentinels

Rating: NC-17

Summary: Not all of the demons they fight are on the outside, and some of their enemies are closer than they want to imagine.

Fandom: Supernatural (That's right, folks... I've briefly strayed away from HP, but I'll be back to it soon!)

Pairing: Sam/Dean

Warnings: Incest; references to (canonical) het; a gory dream sequence

Spoilers: References to characters and/or incidents in: Skin, Home, Scarecrow, and Route 666, plus the descriptions of as-yet-aired eps

Thanks to my amazing and ever-patient beta, [ ](http://nyxfixx.livejournal.com/profile)[**nyxfixx**](http://nyxfixx.livejournal.com/)

 

Sentinels

 

 

“I hate your rich friends.”

 

Sam sighed. “Come _on_ , Dean. It’s one night, and five thousand apiece, cash in hand.”

 

Dean tugged at his bow tie. “That’s assuming I don’t suffocate before then.”

 

“Or that the demon doesn’t kill you, or that _I_ don’t,” said Sam testily. He handed Dean a tray of hors d’oeuvre; as he did a slender redhead in a ballgown hurried into the kitchen. 

 

“ _Please_ ,” she said to them, “I’ve got guests waiting. The caterers are short-handed of _real_ waiters, gentlemen, and I need you to pretend, all right?”

 

“Sorry, Gloria,” said Sam, “my brother’s not naturally servile.”

 

“I just don’t like being out there unarmed,” retorted Dean.

 

Gloria shook her head. “My guests would notice if the waiters had sawed-off shotguns, and some of them have been in embassy takeovers, so they get a bit nervous about that sort of thing. Besides, nothing is going to happen until midnight. _Guaranteed_.”

 

“It would be a lot easier if we could do this without a roomful of people watching,” Dean told her, not for the first time.

 

She looked distressed. “We can’t. We’ve tried, believe me – the _thing_ only happens when there’s a party going on.” She looked helplessly at Sam. “Becca said you knew how to deal with these things…”

 

Sam squeezed her shoulder. “We do. Trust us.”

 

She nodded. “I do. But – oh – just a side note…”

 

Dean braced himself. Last-minute information was never a good thing. “Yeah?”

 

“You should probably try to stay away from my father. He’s the bald one with the salt-and-pepper beard. He thinks you’re drug dealers.”

 

Sam’s jaw dropped. “ _What_?”

 

“Look, all Daddy knows is that I asked for an extra ten thousand dollars for the party, no questions asked. He doesn’t _want_ to know why I’m paying you so much extra, and it would be a kindness if you could avoid teasing him in the meantime, all right?”

 

She handed Sam a tray of champagne glasses, and swept out of the kitchen.

 

Dean glowered at his brother, and headed out to the party with the hors d’oeuvre. “I hate your rich friends,” he said again.

 

He did have to admit, though, that the party was a nice one. If he’d been able to stand the monkey suit – and wasn’t there as a waiter – he could probably have enjoyed himself, even if it wasn’t his usual idea of a good time.

 

While a few guests lingered in the estate’s gardens, the largest assemblage was concentrated in a giant ballroom. No one was dancing, however, although a string quartet was playing some very pretty music. Dean weaved in between guests, proffering appetizers, avoiding Gloria’s father, and keeping his eye on the great marble fireplace that dominated the room. 

 

Gloria had said that when _it_ happened, it would center on the fireplace. That little tidbit of information had been enough to intrigue Dean; what she was willing to pay on top of it just made the deal even sweeter.

 

He snuck a glance at his watch. 11:55 p.m. It was getting damn close. He hated the way the thing had been set up. Going and waiting for something to happen, and waiting for someone to bring his weapon to him – it was almost too much.

 

Almost.

 

He shoved the last hors d’oeuvre into his mouth, and made his way to the fireplace. 

 

_“People just suddenly go crazy, standing there,” Gloria had told them. “The last time, in the 1960s, it was my father’s brother. He suddenly had a knife, out of nowhere… he started screaming at people and – and stabbing them…”_

_“What happened to him?” Sam had asked._

_“He killed three people,” Gloria had said, her voice hoarse. “He’s been in an institution ever since. I’ve never even met him.”_

 

Dean glanced at his watch again. Midnight.

 

He felt a sudden wave of dizziness, and stepped back, trying to keep his balance. His eyes fluttered closed; he forced them open, and looked out onto the party. It was… _different_ … somehow. The men looked the same – all tuxedos – but the women’s dresses all suddenly looked old-fashioned. And the string quartet was gone, replaced by a jazz band.

 

_Oh, great_ , thought Dean. _Time-travel apparitions. Just what I need. But on the bright side, I don’t feel all stabby_.

 

He heard screaming to his left, and lazily looked over. A young man was standing a few feet from him, shrieking incoherently, clutching a knife. Dean wondered if the man was one of the apparitions, or if –

 

And all at once the young man bore down on him, and Dean felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his arm. Crimson blossomed on his white shirtsleeve. The man raised his knife again, and Dean suddenly snapped back to the present day – unfortunately, so did the man with the knife. Dean dodged, driving a fist into the man’s stomach at the same time. From the corner of his eye he saw Sam slam the man in the face with his champagne tray.

 

_Two blows and down_ , thought Dean. _What a wimp_.

 

Then the roaring started. He and Sam looked up at the ceiling at the same time. A huge, formless black shadow swirled and oscillated above their heads.

 

Dammit, where was that girl with his weapon? “GLORIA!”

 

The redhead came running up, a shotgun in each hand, and deftly tossed one to each brother. As one, they aimed at the ceiling and fired. The roaring increased, but now it sounded wounded.

 

The shadow gathered together, and spiraled to the ground, shrieking and howling like a tornado. The brothers pivoted, so that their backs were to the crowd of guests – no need to spray anyone innocent with rock salt – and fired simultaneously into the maelstrom. 

 

Again: lock: load: fire.

 

Again: lock: load: fire.

 

A final time, a fourth double-shot, and the shadow-tornado erupted into ash.

 

“NOW!” shouted Sam, and Gloria re-appeared, this time with a small hand-vacuum. She bent over and diligently vacuumed up the remains of the entity. Dean staggered a little, feeling woozy, and as he watched her, he thought: _She’s too skinny to wear a backless dress_.

 

Gloria stood, and handed the vac to Sam. He popped it open, pulled out the bag, and tossed it into the fireplace. It exploded in a burst of blue-green light, almost like fireworks.

 

Then there was another sound, this one from behind them. Dean turned.

 

The crowd of guests was applauding politely. They thought what they’d just seen was _entertainment_.

 

From the corner of his eye, Dean saw Gloria curtsy, and Sam bow. Dean grinned, took a little bow himself, and then passed out from blood loss.

 

 

~

 

Dean groaned, and opened his eyes. He was in a hospital bed; perched on the foot of his bed was Gloria. She was eating chocolates from a box.

 

“Sam?” asked Dean.

 

“Nope, Gloria,” said the girl cheerfully. She hopped off the bed and jammed a chocolate in his mouth. “Truffle,” she announced, smiling.

 

“Not bad,” said Dean, swallowing.

 

“For fifty dollars? I should hope you’d think more if it than that. A review of ‘not bad’ would break the chocolatier’s heart.”

 

“Fifty bucks for a box of _candy_?”

 

“No,” said Gloria, “fifty dollars a truffle.”

 

Dean wrinkled his nose at her. “Don’t pigs dig those up?”

 

She smiled at him. “Yes, but they wash the pig slobber off first, so it’s okay.” She plopped another chocolate into her mouth. “I’m trying to fatten up a bit,” she said, “seeing as how I’m currently too skinny to be fuckable.”

 

Dean gaped at her.

 

“You said some very interesting things as they were loading you into the ambulance,” she continued, as though she were reporting something of no significance. “I wish my couturier had told me my gown made my ass look bony.”

 

Dean groaned again. “I knew I shouldn’t have watched that episode of ‘Project Runway.’”

 

Gloria laughed, and ate another chocolate. “Blood loss makes people say strange things.”

 

“Where’s Sammy?” asked Dean, nearly desperate to change the subject.

 

“At the car repair shop.”

 

Dean nearly flew out of the bed. “The _repair shop_? What happened to my car?”

 

Gloria blinked at him, surprised. “Nothing. He said you wanted to buy new wheels.”

 

Dean focused, and translated Sheltered Rich Girl into Motorhead. He breathed a sigh of relief, and settled back into the bed.

 

“Not wheels,” he said. “Tires. And you don’t get them at a repair shop. I’m getting new tires for my Impala with my cut.”

 

She looked amazed. “I didn’t know you could spend five thousand dollars on wheels. Tires.”

 

“Well, it’ll probably come closer to twenty-four, twenty-five hundred,” said Dean. “I’m getting high-end luxury performance tires, with thick and wide beautiful treads. They’ll just about keep up with me.” He smiled at the thought.

 

She perched a little closer. “I’ve never thought a lot about cars,” she said. “But the way you talk about it, it sounds very… sexy.” She ate another chocolate, this time slowly and deliberately. Dean felt his mouth quiver as he watched her eat it.

 

And then, to his enormous relief, he was rescued. Sam walked in.

 

“Hey, you’re up.”

 

“Yeah, well, I nearly fainted again when Paris Hilton here said my car was in the repair shop.”

 

Sam smiled. “Sorry I took so long – it took a while to count out twenty-four hundred in twenties.”

 

Gloria shrugged. “You should have said if you wanted hundreds. You asked for twenties.” She grinned. “It was a lot of fun, really, going into the bank and asking for ten thousand dollars in non-sequential twenties. The bank manager thought I was paying a bribe!”

 

“You really need to get out more,” Dean told her.

 

She stood. “I’ll leave you to rest up. And thank you again for everything.” She bent over, and kissed Dean; he started with surprise when he felt her chocolate-coated tongue slip into his mouth. “Come back when I’ve put a little weight on, okay?”

 

Then she went over to Sam, and gave him a chaste, nearly sisterly kiss. “Take care of yourself, Sam.”

 

Sam nodded, and she left. Sam took up her spot on Dean’s bedside.

 

“Pretty girl,” said Dean.

 

“That’s not what you said in the ambulance,” said Sam, grinning wickedly.

 

“Oh, hell. I didn’t _really_ say she was too skinny to fuck, did I?”

 

“Yeah, but in a nice way. Well, not really. But she took it well, anyhow. And she didn’t hear what you said once you were actually _in_ the ambulance.”

 

“Which was what?”

 

“That fucking her would be like fucking a bicycle.”

 

Dean groaned.

 

“The ambulance attendant thought it was funny as hell, though.”

 

Dean shook his head. Then something occurred to him. “Hey, Sammy… what about you?”

 

“What about me what?”

 

“Did you ever do her? At Stanford?”

 

“Dean…”

 

“You did, didn’t you? Don’t deny it.”

 

Sam breathed out hard. “She was my first, okay?”

 

Dean’s expression softened. “Really?”

 

Sam nodded. “I’d been in California, I don’t know, less than month. She thought I was cute…” He shrugged. “I followed her around like a puppy for a couple of weeks after that. Pretty humiliating, really.”

 

“Nah,” said Dean, trying to sound casual. “It’s not like she was your last.” 

 

Sam smiled a little.

 

“We won’t come back,” Dean said. “I’m not climbing into bed with your first time, even if she does stop looking like a Schwinn. We’re screwed up enough as it is.”

 

“True that.”

 

Dean held up his hand, and Sam grasped it. Dean felt a sudden shock rocket through his body: as nice as it had been to have a pretty girl stick her tongue in his mouth, clasping hands with his brother was startlingly erotic.

 

Dean pulled his hand away, and pulled the covers up. “I still need a little sleep.”

 

Sam nodded. “All you want, dude. Gloria said she’d foot the hospital bills.”

 

~

 

Dean drove.

 

He’d been in the hospital for two days, but only because he’d staggered around like he was drunk on the first day. He hated being cooped up. Driving was freedom.

 

Dean drove, and Sam slept. He’d nodded off in the front seat, murmuring occasionally, though Dean couldn’t make out what he said. For a while, Dean had entertained himself by concentrating on the thrum of the Impala’s new tires on the road; it had been like music. But Sam, fast asleep, presented Dean with a problem: he couldn’t escape thinking about his younger brother. 

 

The deep, profoundly erotic thrill he’d received when Sam clasped his hand had been as unwelcome as it had been stimulating. And Sam, sleeping peacefully and looking angelic, wasn’t helping matters. It was easy enough to avoid thinking about when Sam was awake, because they talked about other things. But now…

 

Sam said something, quietly, in his sleep. Dean reached across and thumped him soundly on the chest.

 

Sam started awake. “What – what the _hell_?”

 

“You were snoring.”

 

“What?”

 

“You. Were. Snoring. It was bugging the hell out of me.”

 

“I don’t snore,” said Sam. He was either genuinely hurt or had contrived very convincingly to sound it.

 

“Are you kidding, man? You were snoring like a whole damn pride of lions. I thought something was wrong with the carburetor at first.”

 

“Fuck you,” said Sam pleasantly.

 

“You wish.”

 

“And I don’t snore. You’d’ve complained before now, for one thing.”

 

Dean grunted. “I was bored, okay? Now you’re awake, so entertain me.”

 

“Dude, you’ve heard of the radio, right? Or the tape deck?”

 

“Just talk, okay?”

 

Sam stared at him for a while.

 

“What’s wrong, Dean?”

 

“Just talk, college boy, all right?”

 

“What about?”

 

“I don’t know. Don’t care. Anything. What were you dreaming about?”

 

“Dad,” said Sam quietly. “I dreamed we found Dad.”

 

Dean looked excited. “Honest to God? Think it was a psychic dream?”

 

Sam shrugged. “I – I hope not. He… he didn’t look too good. Look, it was probably just a random nightmare, okay?”

 

Dean sighed. “Fine.”

 

In the distance, the outline of a town came into view.

 

“Why don’t we stop for dinner?” suggested Sam. “Someplace nice. Someplace with a ‘Please wait, hostess will seat you’ sign. God knows we can afford it now.”

 

“Ah, luxury,” said Dean, grinning.

 

~

 

The town was small, but the main road offered all the brothers could have hoped for. They had their choice of restaurants, and the local hotel – no motel for them this time – looked as if no one had ever been murdered in it.

 

“I think my standards have fallen,” said Sam when he opened the bathroom door in their room. “I’m excited by the lack of grime.”

 

“Try not to come on the towels, okay?”

 

Sam laughed. “Screw you.”

 

“You still wish.”

 

Dean kicked his shoes off, and stretched out comfortably on his bed – a queen-size. There were two queen-size beds in this room: another luxury. He’d had a steak for dinner; a real one, New York Strip, not diner-style imitation meat-like foodstuffs. And a couple of glasses of wine, too. He wasn’t drunk – not by a long shot – but he felt as content as he had in a long time.

 

_“The way I see it,” Sam had said, looking over the menu, “is like this. We can scrimp and save every penny Gloria paid us, husband our resources, and live on the cheap. Or – ”_

_“This had better be a good ‘or,’” Dean had replied._

_“Or we can enjoy the money while we’ve got it, and worry about money again when we don’t.”_

_“I vote the second. And have I ever in my life said, ‘Let’s husband our resources, little bro’?”_

_“Not unless you’ve got a little brother I don’t know anything about.”_

 

Sam darted out of the bathroom, clad only in his jeans. “I smell smoke.”

 

Dean sat bolt upright. He sniffed. “I don’t smell anything, Sam.”

 

“I smell smoke, dammit!” Sam raced out the door of their room. Dean rolled off the bed and hurried after him, not bothering with his shoes. Sam was pacing frantically up and down the parking lot.

 

“I can’t tell where it’s coming from!”

 

Dean grabbed his shoulder. “Is this a psychic thing, Sam? _Think_.”

 

Sam looked wildly into his eyes for a moment, and Dean felt his heart start pounding, the way it had in the hospital. He shook himself out of it, angrily.

 

“Sammy? Did you hear me?”

 

Sam nodded. “It’s – I think it’s like you said, it’s – it’s a psychic thing. But there _is_ a fire, Dean – we have to get there.”

 

Dean pulled his car keys out of his pocket. “Lead the way, Toucan.”

 

The brothers ran to the car. Sam jumped into the passenger seat, and immediately started navigating.

 

It didn’t take long for them to find the fire; as they drove by a house, the attic window shattered outward, and smoke billowed out.

 

Sam practically jumped out of the car even as Dean hit the brakes. “We’ve got to help them!”

 

“Dammit, Sammy!” Dean scrambled for his cell phone, and raced after his brother, frantically dialing 911.

 

Sam ran into the burning house.

 

~

 

Fresh oxygen was pumped into his body, and Dean jolted back to consciousness with a start. He pulled the oxygen mask off his face, and stared at the house in horror. Thick, black smoke curled from every window, from the open front door.

 

He tried to speak, and choked, coughing hard. He spat out soot.

 

_Dean had placed the 911 call, and followed his brother into the house. But Sam was nowhere to be seen; all round him was thick, black, choking smoke. He dropped to his knees, coughing frantically, eyes burning and running with tears. He felt his way back to the door, and crawled out onto the lawn, gasping for breath…_

 

The oxygen mask was put over his face again, by someone behind him.

 

“Hold still, pal,” said the voice.

 

Dean tried to break away. “My brother – ”

 

He started choking again.

 

“You got a couple of lungfuls, okay, pal? Hold still.”

 

Dean tried to shake his head, frantically, pointing at the house.

 

“Hey, your brother will be fine,” said the paramedic. “Just try to breathe.”

 

Dean turned and stared at the man incredulously.

 

“You’re not from around here, are you?” asked the paramedic. He pointed back to the front door. “See the way the smoke just came puffing out like that? Your brother’s fine.”

 

Dean wanted to scream at the paramedic, but only more coughs came out.

 

“Look,” said the paramedic, “is that your brother there? Coming out of the house?”

 

Dean stared. Sam was, somehow, still on his feet; clutched in his arms was a small child. He ran a few yards, toward the ambulance, then fell to his knees. 

 

The paramedic helped Dean stand up – grabbed him and pulled him up, really – and hauled him over to Sam and the child. Both of them were breathing heavily, but neither of them was choking or coughing. The paramedic draped a blanket around Sam’s bare shoulders, while his partner bore the child off to the ambulance.

 

“There’s a girl in there – ” breathed Sam.

 

For a moment, the paramedic looked panicked. “A child?”

 

“No, no – ”

 

The paramedic calmed down at once. “Pretty blonde, in her twenties, floral dress, called you by your first name?”

 

Sam stared in amazement, and nodded.

 

The paramedic smiled. “Mrs. McGill,” he said. “Don’t worry about her, she’s fine.”

 

~

 

Dean had refused medical treatment – or at least, he’d refused to go to the hospital. Two hospitals in three days was far too many. Besides, Sam would have insisted on paying legitimately, and that would have eaten up their cash.

 

And Dean had been in much worse shape than Sam. Sam had spent a hell of a lot more time in the house than Dean had, and come out of the place having breathed barely any smoke. But he _reeked_ of it.

 

So Dean had let Sam use the shower first. In fact, while he’d been waiting, the concierge had showed up, and offered to launder their clothes. They’d made the news.

 

Dean decided he _liked_ this place. He’d be sorry to see it in his rear-view mirror.

 

Sam finally came trudging out of the bathroom, mostly damp, a towel slung low around his hips. He was working a smaller towel through his hair. “I can still smell the smoke,” he said morosely.

 

“You could rub a little toothpaste on your nostrils,” said Dean. “Don’t look at me like that! It’s a good idea.”

 

“I can never tell with you.” Sam sank onto his bed, his face in his hands.

 

“You did good work tonight, little bro’,” said Dean gently. He patted Sam encouragingly on the shoulder, and headed into the bathroom for his own shower.

 

The hot water felt like heaven. Sam had used up most of the soap, and all of the little bottle of shampoo, but there was still enough for Dean to wash up, and get the stink of smoke off his body. He scrubbed his face, and closed his eyes. The memory of Sam, damp and wearing only a limp towel, came back to him unbidden.

 

_You are_ not _thinking about your brother that way_!

 

But it was all too easy a sight to remember, and all too easy to imagine Sam pulling the towel off…

 

_It had happened, that first time, just barely a week ago, right before Sam got the call from Gloria. They’d been huddled together in a barn, freezing, lost in the middle of the night. They’d done their job, and dispatched a couple of ghouls out of existence. But they’d gotten lost along the way: they had no idea where the main road was, where they’d left the car._

_Snow had started to fall._

_Then Dean had been able to make out the shape of a barn in the distance. The farmhouse it once belonged to was long gone – probably a victim of the ghouls they’d exorcised – but the dilapidated barn at least offered shelter._

_They huddled together, sharing body warmth, cursing their stupidity, cursing fate…_

_And somehow, in all of it, their lips had met. Just brushed across, really, barely a dusting of a kiss. They’d both pulled back, horrified._

_And then they’d come together again. This time it had been a_ real _kiss, hungry and deliberate and frightened and expressing all the things they couldn’t say out loud, from the simplest of sorrows to whatever_ this _was._

_They’d survived the night. In the morning, they found the road, found the car. And they hadn’t spoken a word about it since. But the memory of those kisses haunted Dean, and had infused every innocent, brotherly thing he and Sam had shared since then._

 

Dean forced his eyes open and shook his head sharply. He refused to lust after his little brother, he simply refused to do it.

 

Dean got out of the shower and dried off; Sam had left him a couple of towels, at least. He wrapped a towel around himself, and stuck his head out the bathroom door. Sam was apparently asleep already; only a single light shone in the room, and Sam was curled up on top of his bed, still draped in just the towel.

 

Dean stole past him quietly, clambered into his own bed, tossed his towel in a corner, and switched off the light. He lay back, breathing deeply, willing sleep to come. 

 

That was when he heard Sam choke down a sob. He froze, not even daring to breathe himself. Sam took another breath, another spasm.

 

Dean climbed out of his own bed, and settled on Sam’s, behind him, but not too close. He stroked Sam’s hair.

 

“You did good, Sam, I told you that. You saved that kid.”

 

“Why did it have to be fire?” asked Sam quietly.

 

Dean shook his head, not that Sam could see it. “Dunno, little bro’. But you did damn good. Helluva lot better than I did.”

 

Sam took a shuddering breath, then said, softly, “I thought it was Jess at first.”

 

Dean stroked Sam’s hair again. “The girl who led you out?” he asked. “The one who knew your name?”

 

“Yeah,” whispered Sam. “I thought she was… God, I miss her, Dean.” He scooted backward on the bed, up against Dean.

 

Dean bit his lip. There was no way Sammy couldn’t feel it…

 

“You’re hard.”

 

“It’s cold.”

 

“You don’t get hard when it’s cold.”

 

“Yeah, I do,” said Dean. “I’m a fucking compass, all right? And every direction is due north.”

 

Sam half-turned toward him. “Liar.”

 

It happened again. Mouth pressed against mouth, tongue slid across tongue. Sam ground his hips back, against Dean, against his erection.

 

Dean moaned with pleasure. Then he caught himself. “You don’t want this.”

 

“Yeah, I do,” said Sam. He ground his hips again.

 

Dean let his hand slide from Sam’s hair onto his shoulder, then down his arm, across the taut muscles of his abdomen. He slid his fingers under the towel; they brushed against the head of Sam’s cock.

 

“Please,” whispered Sam. “Please…”

 

Dean grasped Sam’s cock firmly, and Sam pushed back with his hips again. They found a rhythm quickly, hips rocking together, Dean stroking in time with their movement. It was familiar and alien all at once – it was like pleasing himself, but at a remove. 

 

He tried not to let his brain remind him who he was touching.

 

And then it was gloriously, wonderfully, over. Sam came, hard, and Dean quickly followed him. They fell asleep, cradled together.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sentinels - Part Two

Sam dreamed.

 

_Glass shatters, and thick, black smoke billows out the window. He leaps out of the car before Dean’s even finished parking it, and runs into the house. It’s an insane thing to do – the house is burning, smoke is everywhere, and he’s barefoot._

_But he doesn’t think about those things. He runs in, chokes on the smoke, and moves where instinct guides him. He runs forward, and finds a staircase. He drags himself up, riser by riser, coughing, choking… and finally the air clears, cools. That shouldn’t be, he knows, because he saw the fire coming from the upper floor. It should be worse up here, but it isn’t._

_He doesn’t stop to think about it. He keeps running; he legs ache, and he feels as if he’s dragging lead weights. Part of his brain says to him: it’s the lack of oxygen._

_He keeps going, pushes his way into a bedroom. He knows this is the right room,_ knows _it, but can’t find what he’s looking for._

_He checks under the bed: nothing. He jerks open the closet door. There, huddled in the back, is a sandy-haired boy, maybe five years old._

_“Come on!” Sam shouts, but the kid shakes his head no. Sam stares at him in amazement._

_He kneels. “I bet your parents told you never to go with strangers, didn’t they?” he asks._

_The boy nods._

_“Well, that’s good advice, but the house is burning down, so you need to come with me. I’m going to help you.”_

_“Are you a fireman?” asks the boy._

_“No,” says Sam, wondering what credentials would impress the boy. “I’m a ghost-hunter.”_

_“Cool!” says the boy, and practically springs into Sam’s arms._

_They’ve wasted valuable seconds. The door is blocked now, utterly blocked by smoke and fire. They won’t be getting out._

_And then… then Jess is there, standing right in front of him._

_“Come on, Sam,” she urges, “this way! Come with me!”_

_Sam blinks. It isn’t Jess, of course; Jess is dead. And the blonde woman in front of him really bears only the most passing resemblance to her._

_“There isn’t much time, Sam! Hurry, follow me!”_

_She heads down the hallway, toward the stairs; the smoke and fire clear in her wake. Sam tightens his grip on the boy, and runs. He follows her down the stairs, to the door, and doesn’t even notice at first that she’s not with him._

_He runs, and falls to his knees, breathing hard. He should be choking and spitting smoke, his feet should be blistered and burned raw, his hair should be on fire… but he’s fine. The ache in his lungs is from sprinting with a fifty-pound child in his arms, nothing more._

_Then Dean is practically dropped right in front of him, wearing an oxygen mask. Sam tries to explain what’s going on. Dean grasps Sam’s head in both hands, and presses their foreheads together._

_“I thought I lost you, little bro’. Thought you were gone. Thank God, thank God…”_

 

Sam stirred, and woke a little, still drowsy. Dean was curled behind him, deeply asleep. Sam shifted a little, and in response, Dean murmured a girl’s name. “Cassie…”

 

Sam closed his eyes, hoping for a peaceful sleep. He dreamed.

 

_He’s walking down a flight of stairs now, old and disused for a long time, but there’s a set of footprints in the dust for him to follow. He enters a room; the air is stale and musty, but nonetheless – and despite all the dust and cobwebs – there’s a strange sense of sterility. Nothing in this room has been moved or changed in a_ very _long time, and it was like that long before the house was abandoned._

_From behind him, he hears the clicks of a shotgun being readied to fire. He raises his hands, and slowly turns. He is quite unsurprised to see his father, aiming the weapon squarely at his chest._

_Sam is very familiar with this dream. He’s aware that it’s a dream, and he’s aware he’s had it before. And he knows the way it ends: he sees his father, and he calls out for Dean. Dean comes running, and tries to prevent their father from killing Sam by standing in front of his little brother._

_John Winchester becomes enraged, and fires point-blank into Dean’s chest, practically cutting him in half. The gore that had been Dean’s torso is splattered across the room. Sam is dripping in blood, and the shredded remnants of Dean’s viscera cling to their father’s face._

_“You see what you’ve made me do?” asks John Winchester furiously. Then he readies the gun again, and shoots Sam. As Sam lies dying, he hears his father say, “I’m so sorry, Dean,” and then there’s another shot._

_But that won’t happen this time. He won’t allow it._

_“I won’t let you kill Dean,” he says to his father. John Winchester laughs._

_“I don’t want to kill_ Dean _,” he says. “I’d_ never _kill Dean. He’s my son. I love him.”_

_“I’m your son, too,” says Sam._

_“No,” says Dean’s father, “you’re not. You’re a demon.”_

_“I’m not a demon, Dad.”_

_“You are,” insists John Winchester, “and you’re not my son. I used to think you were. But you aren’t. You murdered my wife, Dean’s mother. You murdered that poor girl who loved you.”_

_“No,” says Sam quietly. He’s stunned. He’s never learned why his father wants him dead before._

_“Yes,” says John Winchester. “Now – kneel.”_

_“No,” says Sam, suddenly defiant. “I’m not going to kneel, I’m not going to bow my head, I’m not going to close my eyes or turn around or look the other way. I’m going to die on my feet, looking you in the eye.”_

_“I have no quarrel with that, demon,” says John. “All I care about is that you die.”_

_Then there’s an explosion of noise, of pain, as Sam is propelled backward by the bullets, and in his final moments he hears Dean scream his name._

 

Sam woke, feeling sick, slipped out of bed. Dean whimpered a little in his sleep as he lost the body warmth of his bed-companion; Sam pulled the bed undone, and doubled the covers over him.

 

He went into the bathroom, peed, washed up, washed his face. He stared in the mirror at his reflection, not quite sure what he was expecting to see. 

 

He closed his eyes, dropped his head, and gripped the sides of the sink tightly, hoping not to throw up. He’d had that nightmare about his father nearly every night for a week now, almost every time he’d shut his eyes since that night in the barn.

 

He thought it was maybe just guilt, at first – knowing how disappointed their father would be, how horrified. But now he was afraid it was, as Dean had suggested, a psychic dream, and that their father really did want him dead.

 

He was deeply and profoundly confused by what he and Dean had done, and last night had only made it worse. He didn’t know what disturbed him more: that he’d offered himself so quickly to Dean, or that Dean had so willingly accepted.

 

No, that wasn’t fair, at least not to Dean. They hadn’t spoken a word about what happened in the barn, but Sam could see that it was eating Dean up inside. Either that, or his brother had just spontaneously decided to see if he could raise moodiness to a high art.

 

He went back into the room, pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms, and got out his laptop. It was just booting up when there was a knock at the door.

 

Sam got up, and quickly messed up the empty bed – Dean’s bed – so it would look slept in. Then he opened the door a crack. 

 

“Room service,” said the teenage boy at the door. “I have your clothes.”

 

“Uh, thanks,” whispered Sam. “Just a sec.” He got a twenty from his wallet, and handed it to the kid.

 

“Oh, you don’t have to – ”

 

“Sure I do,” said Sam. He took the clean clothes, gratefully, and watched the kid admire his non-sequentially numbered twenty all the way down the hall.

 

He locked the door again, and got dressed, quickly. Then he went back to his computer and started searching.

 

He sighed. It would be easier if he could remember the name the paramedic had said the night before. It would a _lot_ easier if he had any idea where he and Dean were.

 

Dean stirred, woke up. “Hey, dude.”

 

“Hey, Dean.” He didn’t look up from the computer. “Clothes are back.”

 

“Nice.”

 

“They used fabric softener.”

 

Dean yawned. “You college boys and your fabric softener,” he teased. “Next you’ll be wanting socks without holes in them.”

 

“Nah, I’m not _gay_.”

 

Dean laughed, and went into the bathroom. When he came back out, Sam asked, “Hey, can you look something up for me in Dad’s book?”

 

“Sure. Lemme put some pants on first.”

 

“We’re in western Pennsylvania, right?”

 

“Yep. Buckshire Village, if that’s a help.”

 

“It is, thanks. And do you remember the name the paramedic said? The woman’s name? Something Irish, I think.”

 

“Scottish,” corrected Dean. “Mc-something. McGill, Mrs. McGill. Damn, they _did_ use fabric softener, didn’t they?” He pulled up a chair next to Sam and dropped into it, book in hand. “Okay, what do you want me to look up?”

 

“Just see if this place is in there, if Dad’s got any notes on it.”

 

“Not a problem. I don’t remember anything offhand, but some of his notes are pretty sketchy.”

 

“Pretty cryptic, you mean.” 

 

“Well, he has his own shorthand.”

 

“That’s not shorthand, that’s being deliberately obscure. What was he writing down that he didn’t want us to see?”

 

“If I knew that, I’d know where he is. You got anything?”

 

“Yeah, they went into computers in a big way in this town. Whole library’s online. Yeah, here we are, got a hit.” He clicked on the link, and read the article. “God, this is sad.”

 

“So what’s the deal with your blonde ghosty?”

 

“Her name was – or is, I guess – Lenore McGill. Her husband was in the Army during World War II, but was discharged in 1944 for medical reasons – psychiatric, I think.”

 

Dean whistled. “They sent him home on a psych discharge during 1944? He must have been seriously screwed up.”

 

Sam nodded. “Looks like. He was barely home a week when he got the idea in his head that Lenore had been cheating on him – get this – with _Hitler_. Thought she was sending Hitler coded messages, that she was a spy. He beat the crap out of her, left her for dead. Then he set the house on fire.”

 

“Jesus!”

 

“And the worst part – ”

 

“It gets _worse_?

 

“Yeah. She wasn’t dead when he started the fire. As badly hurt as she was, she tried to get out. She almost made it. They found her a foot from the door. It was the smoke that killed her.”

 

He breathed out, hard. The girl he’d seen the night before had been pretty, in a plain sort of way. She’d worn a simple floral dress that she’d probably made herself, and her hair was done up like a 1940s movie star’s. He could just imagine her putting on an expensive lipstick that she’d saved up for – or maybe borrowed from a friend – getting ready to go out with her newly-returned G.I. husband, never suspecting what was about to happen to her…

 

“I hope they toasted the son of a bitch,” said Dean fervently.

 

“Mental institution,” said Sam, coming back to reality. He clicked on the next link. “Okay, here we go. A little more than a year after Mrs. McGill was murdered, a local man who escaped a burning building claimed that she led him out of it. She called him by his first name, and cleared the smoke and fire away so he could get through.”

 

“Anyone believe him?” asked Dean.

 

“Not at first. But a few months later, there was another fire, and the people who survived it told the same story.” 

 

Sam clicked on the most recent link – the one about the fire the previous night. “Whoa. According to this, no one in this town has died in a fire in over sixty years.”

 

“Way to go, Mrs. McGill!” Dean squeezed his shoulder. “She did all right by you, too, little bro’.”

 

Sam turned and grinned at him. Then eye contact suddenly became uncomfortable, and they both looked away, fast.

 

“Anything in Dad’s book?” asked Sam.

 

Dean nodded. “Yeah, but not a lot. The coordinates for the town, and the words ‘possible fire demon.’”

 

“She’s not a fire demon, Dean.”

 

“No kidding. She’s a Sentinel. I say we leave well enough alone.” He scratched out their father’s notation, and wrote ‘Lenore McGill, Sentinel’ next to the entry.

 

“So, what’s the plan?” asked Sam. “What next?”

 

“First things first. I need an auto parts store.”

 

Sam stared at him in horror. “Was… was the Impala hurt in the fire?”

 

Dean threw his head back and practically roared with laughter. “Nah, I just need something to clean my upholstery! It reeks of smoke.”

 

“Hey, I just didn’t want to spend the next twelve hundred miles listening to you bitch about that car.”

 

Dean grinned. “You might anyway, if I can’t get the smell out.”

 

~

 

Sam sniffed. “That’s really impressive.”

 

Dean, who had moved on to cleaning the driver’s side, smiled. “I can get _anything_ out of upholstery,” he said. “I nearly bled to death in the back seat once, and you’d never know.”

 

Sam stared at him, shocked.

 

“You nearly _what_?”

 

“Bled. To. Death. Inthebackseat. On a hunting trip with Dad.”

 

“Dude, you have got to stop nearly bleeding to death,” said Sam. “Seriously.”

 

Dean chuckled. “You have your hobbies, I have mine.”

 

Dean’s cell phone started ringing. “Hey, man, can you grab that? It’s in the back seat.”

 

Sam answered it. “Dean Winchester’s phone. Dean is currently busy not bleeding to death, and is unable to take your call. May I take a message?”

 

Dean chortled.

 

“Oh, hey, Missouri!” said Sam cheerfully. “Nice to hear from you. Hey, I want to ask you – what? …yeah, he’s right here… sure, hang on a sec.”

 

He handed the phone down to Dean. “She won’t talk to me. Just you.”

 

Dean wrinkled his nose, and took the phone.

 

“Hey, Missouri. I’m up to my elbows in fabric cleaner. What’s up?” Dean listened for a few minutes, and then said, “Sure, we can be on the road in a couple of hours. We’ll drive straight through, we should be there tomorrow morning. Hey, is there any reason you couldn’t tell Sam that? …oh, okay. ’Bye.” He clicked the phone shut.

 

“What’s up?”

 

Dean rubbed his chin. “Sam, that nightmare you said you had about Dad – ”

 

Sam tensed. “Yeah?”

 

“You sure it wasn’t a psychic dream?”

 

Sam bit his lip. Telling Dean the truth could lead directly to what he wanted most of all to prevent.

 

“I’m not _sure_ ,” said Sam, “but I can’t imagine it really happening.”

 

“But it’s been a long time since you’ve seen Dad. I mean – he may have changed a lot in ways you don’t know about.”

 

“That’s true,” said Sam cautiously. “But it was pretty out there, even for Dad. Look, what did Missouri say? Is Dad with her?”

 

Dean shook his head. “Not with her. But she said she’s heard from him, and has a message for us, which she is only supposed to deliver in person. She… she kind of hinted that he wants to meet with us.”

 

“All right,” said Sam. “And why wouldn’t she tell me?”

 

Dean looked a little embarrassed. “She said Dad told her only to tell me.”

 

Sam sighed. “Great.”

 

~

 

After lunch (cheeseburger with the works for Dean, vegetarian lasagna for Sam), they hit the road again. Dean drove.

 

“You should try to sleep, man,” said Dean. “I’m gonna need you to spell me in about eight hours.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

“Sam – okay, look, I know you’re pissed at Dad – ”

 

“Well, he knows which one of us he can count on, and which one of us will disobey, doesn’t he?”

 

“There’s no way he found out about that fight,” said Dean. “And you came back in the end, and saved my gorgeous ass. So I’d call that count-on-able. Reliable.”

 

Sam sighed deeply. “I really don’t want to talk to Missouri.”

 

“I thought you wanted to ask her something.”

 

“Yeah, I know, I wanted to ask her something _on the phone_. But we’ll have to see her _in person_.”

 

Dean nodded, almost absently. “You think that she’ll sense something?”

 

“No,” said Sam. “I’m _sure_ she’ll sense it. And no offense to your gorgeous ass, but it’s not something I want known publicly.”

 

“Really?” said Dean, sounding strangely cheerful. “Because I was gonna put up flyers. Ain’t nuthin‘ like a little gay incest to rake in the girls, you know.”

 

Sam swallowed. Well, Dean had named it for what it was, anyhow.

 

“Not so much into raking in the girls,” he said. “I still love Jess. And you and Cassie – ”

 

“Yeah,” said Dean. “All the more reason to get this over with, right? We see Missouri, maybe finally to get to talk to Dad, find out what the hell is going on… and maybe we get on with our lives. I’ll see if Cassie will still have me. You can go back to California, maybe go back to school, find someone new – preferably someone not demonically possessed – and then…”

 

“You don’t think Missouri would say anything to Dad, do you?”

 

Dean snorted. “Are you kidding? _If_ she senses it, _if_ , can you _imagine_ making that phone call?”

 

Sam gave a little laugh. “Well, then, no need for him to ever know. I’m sure as hell not going to say anything.”

 

Dean laughed. “Hi, Dad,” he said brightly, “long time no see! I’ve been keeping busy. Yesterday I popped two ghosties, and then I jerked off Sam. Hey, did you get a haircut?”

 

Sam smiled, and shook his head. “Screw you.”

 

“You _so_ wish.”

 

They were both suddenly quiet.

 

“Okay,” said Sam after a moment, “I don’t think I’ll – ”

 

“Yeah, me either,” agreed Dean quickly.

 

“I’m gonna nap now.”

 

“I’ll wake you in eight.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sentinels – Part Three

 

Sam drove.

 

Dean had wakened him at a rest stop; they stretched their legs and got some snacks from the vending machines. Then Dean settled into the passenger seat, and drifted off to sleep.

 

They’d spoken maybe ten words to each other.

 

Dawn broke; Sam drove. The achingly familiar names of highways and towns paraded past.

 

When he’d taken freshman history at Stanford, he’d amazed his classmates – and his professor – with his incredibly detailed knowledge of Bleeding Kansas. The Sack of Lawrence, where no blood was spilled… the savage, retaliatory Massacre at Pottawatomie Creek… the slaughter at Marais des Cygnes… dates, places, and the names of all fifty-five people butchered in Kansas before the Civil War.

 

It was an impressive store of knowledge. Sam had gained much of it not in school, but riding with his father and Dean. He’d even met a few of the victims, though not under very pleasant circumstances.

 

He didn’t tell his friends that part.

 

When they finally reached the Lawrence city limits, he woke Dean.

 

“Want to freshen up before we see Missouri?”

 

Dean grunted.

 

“Was that a yes or a no?”

 

“It was an ‘uhnnn.’”

 

“Close enough to ‘no’ for me,” said Sam.

 

Dean stretched as best he could. “Man, I’d kill for pancakes.”

 

“You probably won’t have to threaten her. Just try asking nicely.”

 

“Screw – ” He broke off.

 

“Yeah,” said Sam. “I know what you mean.”

 

“Yeah, uh – ”

 

“And just for that, I’m not putting premium in the tank the next time I stop for gas.”

 

Dean stared at him, horrified. “You’re a real bastard before you’ve had your coffee, you know that?”

 

~

 

Missouri had pancakes waiting.

 

Dean stared at Sam.

 

“I don’t cook,” said Sam, answering a differing question than the one Dean hadn’t asked. “Only psychics who cook make you breakfast in advance.”

 

“Lucky guess,” said Missouri. “I knew you boys had been driving all night, and I figured you could use a little food in you. Sam, have you lost weight?”

 

“A little, I think.”

 

“That’s not good, you’re too skinny as it is. Sit, you two.”

 

She gave Sam extra pancakes.

 

“Don’t you complain, Dean Winchester,” said Missouri sharply, before Dean had even uttered a word. “If you had the dreams that he did, you’d quit eating too.”

 

“I _eat_ , Missouri,” said Sam.

 

“Not enough. Now, I’ve got some things to do around the house. I’ll let you two eat in peace.”

 

“Can you tell us what Dad wants?” asked Dean.

 

Missouri looked at them both with terrible sympathy. “I wish I could,” she said softly. “But the message is only for you, Dean. I can’t stop you from giving it to Sam, but I can’t tell him myself.” She tried to brighten her smile. “Now, eat, you two. You’ll be needing it.”

 

Dean looked over his plate at his brother. “It’s really unnerving having a psychic say that.”

 

“About Dad?”

 

“About the food.”

 

Sam twiddled his fork on his plate for a few minutes, then set it down.

 

“You gonna eat those?” asked Dean.

 

From two rooms away, Missouri shouted, “Sam Winchester, eat your breakfast!”

 

~

 

After Missouri cleared their plates away, she sent Sam out onto the back porch. Sam didn’t even look over his shoulder at Dean as he went.

 

He sat on the steps of the back porch, knees drawn up to his chest. It was a lovely back yard; in addition to everything else she did, Missouri Moseley was also a gifted gardener.

 

“Hi.”

 

Sam jolted back to reality. Standing a few feet away was a pretty brunette. She was older than him, but still young, and dressed very plainly in jeans and a Metallica t-shirt.

 

“You’re Missouri’s friend, right? Sam?”

 

“Yeah.” Sam smiled at her. “My brother’d like your t-shirt.”

 

She smiled. “I’m a little sick of it, honestly. I’m Nancy, by the way.” She held out her hand. Sam took it, but instead of shaking it, kissed the back of her hand instead. Nancy giggled.

 

“May I sit down?”

 

“Please do.”

 

She settled next to him, unconsciously mimicking his pose.

 

“So, how do you know Missouri?” asked Sam.

 

“Oh, she lets me hang around,” said Nancy. “Says I’m good to talk to.” She gazed into his eyes. “She said _you_ might need to talk to someone.”

 

Sam breathed out hard. “Yeah. I wouldn’t even know where to start, though.”

 

Nancy regarded him quietly for a few moments. Then she said, “You’re a very powerful psychic. But it’s pretty new to you, isn’t it?”

 

Sam nodded. “It’s – it’s a little crazy to try to deal with. Sometimes I wonder if it’s really even real, or if – or if it isn’t just the onset of schizophrenia. I’m at the right age.”

 

“Schizophrenics don’t foresee the future,” said Nancy gently. “What’s happening to you is real enough.”

 

“What _is_ happening to me?”

 

“I wish I could explain it,” said Nancy. “I think Missouri asked me to talk to you because… well, because I went through the opposite problem.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, when I was a little girl…” she paused, and sighed dreamily. “When I was a little girl, I was incredibly powerful. I could see spirits, talk to them, just the way we’re talking now. I had dreams and visions. Everyone told me it was a blessing, a gift. And then one day…” She spread her hands. “It just went away,” she said softly. “Like someone had turned off a switch in my brain. It was horrible. I had to learn to live in the world all over again. Thought I’d go crazy. And my family – well, they all thought I must have done something awful to deserve losing my gift. I was only ten, you know? What can a ten-year-old do that’s so horrible?”

 

“I’m sorry,” said Sam gently. He laid one of his hands on her knee.

 

She smiled at him. “It took a while to adjust. I managed. That’s what you have to do, now. Get used to living in the world again, in a different way.”

 

“Yeah, I know.”

 

“I don’t mean to preach.”

 

“No, it’s okay. Do you… do you still miss it? Being psychic?”

 

“It’s not a problem any more, really.” She placed her hand on top of Sam’s, and stroked his fingers gently.

 

“There’s something in particular that’s bothering you, isn’t there?”

 

Sam laughed. “Are you sure you’re not still psychic?”

 

“Positive,” said Nancy, smiling. “But I _am_ good to talk to.”

 

Sam nodded absently. Finally, he took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

 

“There’s this dream I keep having,” he said quietly. “Every damn time I go to sleep. I’m sure it’s a psychic dream. But the thing is, there are two different versions of it. I don’t know how that’s possible.”

 

“Is one version better than the other?”

 

“Yes, but not by much. Fewer people die, that’s all.”

 

“That’s a lot,” said Nancy. “Especially to the people who don’t die.”

 

“Yeah,” agreed Sam. “But I die, no matter what. I figure… I figure it’s my responsibility to see that the first version doesn’t happen, but I’m not too crazy about the second one, either.”

 

Nancy furrowed her brow. “When does the second dream end, Sam?”

 

“Right after I die.”

 

“And can you see what happens next? _After_ you die?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then how you do know that the rest of it doesn’t happen, too? That what’s different about the second dream is just the _order_ in which people die?”

 

Sam stared at her, horrified.

 

“Have you ever seen a third version, Sam?”

 

Sam shook his head, slowly. He felt tears well up in his eyes.

 

Nancy squeezed his fingers, then leaned forward and picked a stick up off the ground. She drew a line in the dirt.

 

“I’ve always heard people say that Time is like a river,” she said.

 

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Every little stone you throw causes ripples.”

 

“Yes,” agreed Nancy. “The only problem is that it’s not true.” She drew branches off the line. “Time is really like a tree. Actually, it’s much more like a bramble thicket, but I can’t draw one of those in cross-section.”

 

Despite himself, Sam gave a little laugh. He wiped under his eyes with the heel of his palm.

 

“This is one version of your dream,” said Nancy, indicating a branch. “This is the other. But see how much more room there is?” She drew more and more lines, intersecting each other. “Precognitive psychics don’t just see the future. They see _possible_ futures, the future as it _might_ happen. And just because you’ve dreamed only two versions of the future doesn’t mean there aren’t more.” 

 

“Chaos theory,” said Sam.

 

She met his gaze. “You could still get out of this alive,” she said softly. “Everyone could. _Use_ what you see in your dreams, use it like a tool. _Make_ the future different.”

 

Sam squeezed her fingers. “Missouri’s right. You _are_ good to talk to.” Nancy laughed a little, and Sam continued, “You aren’t demonically possessed, are you?”

 

“What? No, definitely not.”

 

“I’ve learned to ask,” said Sam. “Especially women I might want to date.”

 

She looked down. “I’m really not available.”

 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Sam.

 

She leaned over to him, and kissed his cheek. “Any other circumstance, I’d say yes.”

 

“Time is like a bramble thicket,” intoned Sam. Nancy laughed.

 

The back door slid open.

 

“Yo, Sam, you done communing with Nature? Let’s go.”

 

Sam stared at him. “There’s no need to be rude, Dean.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“He can’t see me, Sam,” said Nancy quietly.

 

Sam stared at her. “But – but you’re _solid_! I can touch you. I felt you kiss me.”

 

“Dude?” asked Dean from the door.

 

“You’re very powerful, Sam,” said Nancy. “More powerful than Missouri, even. We can talk, but she’s never been able to see me.” She stood up. “Look, when she asks… tell her I was dressed nicer than this, okay? It’s really embarrassing to be stuck wearing this for all eternity. I don’t even _like_ Metallica.”

 

Sam nodded dumbly, and Nancy faded from view.

 

“Hey, trance boy!”

 

Sam looked over to Dean. “I’m ready. And you’re a bastard even after you’ve had your coffee.”

 

“No, you just can’t appreciate my winning personality.”

 

“Where did you win it, a carnival side show?”

 

They went back in, through the house, to the front door. Sam couldn’t sense Nancy.

 

“You talked to her,” said Missouri.

 

Sam nodded.

 

“Did you see her?” asked Missouri.

 

Sam nodded again. “Very pretty. And a hell of a dresser, too.”

 

~

 

Sam tossed Dean the car keys before Dean even asked. But that didn’t have anything to do with being psychic – it had a lot more to do with knowing Dean. On top of that, he was exhausted, and didn’t feel like driving.

 

He also didn’t know where they were going.

 

As Sam opened the passenger door, Dean said, “Get out your laptop, okay? There’s something I need you to check out.”

 

Sam buckled up and booted up the laptop. “Gonna have to recharge the battery soon.”

 

“Or buy a new battery,” said Dean. “We got the money.” He started the car. Both brothers automatically looked up and waved good-bye to Missouri.

 

“Can’t say we’re not gentlemen,” muttered Sam. “What are you looking for?”

 

“Missouri gave me an address.” He passed Sam a slip of paper. “She’s not sure, but she thinks that Dad will be waiting to meet us there.” 

 

“He will.”

 

Dean stared at him in amazement. “Did you read Missouri’s mind?”

 

“Didn’t need to. I know.”

 

“This got to do with that ‘random nightmare’ about Dad?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Well? I’m not digging the vague here, Sam.”

 

Sam looked up. “If I tell you, you’ll die.”

 

“Okay, that sucks,” said Dean. “And if you don’t tell me?”

 

“The odds get better.”

 

“That’s _it_? The odds get _better_?”

 

“Got a hit on the address,” said Sam.

 

“Okay, but we are _not_ dropping this. What’s up with the address?”

 

“There was a mysterious death there about thirty years ago. A young woman died in her basement apartment. Her parents believed she was murdered, but were never able to convince the police. They lived in the house for only a few years afterward. After they both died, the house went on the market. The new owners reported all sorts of violent psychic phenomena – from the sounds of things, a poltergeist. The house has been abandoned for years, but there haven’t been any reports of paranormal activity for a while now.”

 

Dean smacked the steering wheel with an open palm. “I thought that address looked familiar! Get Dad’s book, will you? It’s in the back seat.”

 

Sam twisted around and grabbed the book. “Okay, now what?”

 

“It should be about midway through – no, no, the list of hunting trips – that’s the one – right around – ”

 

“Okay. Got it – found the address.”

 

“And?”

 

Sam nodded. “Well according to this, you and Dad cleared the place about two years ago.”

 

“And the house hasn’t been re-sold since then?”

 

Sam shrugged. “A house stands abandoned that long, things fall apart – wood rots, termites get in… you’d probably have to rip the whole thing down and start over.”

 

“And I think it’s on the Historic Register,” said Dean. “So no one would ever get that kind of permission.”

 

“And the restoration would be incredibly expensive.”

 

“So the house stays empty,” finished Dean. “God, I wonder how many little abandoned safe houses like this Dad knows about?”

 

“Talk about needle in a haystack,” muttered Sam.

 

“Okay, one mystery solved – now let’s get back to that part about whether or not I die.”

 

Sam stared into space.

 

“Sam?”

 

“Time is like a bramble thicket,” murmured Sam.

 

“What? Who were you talking to back at Missouri’s – the ghost of Confucius?”

 

“It means I have to think, Dean.”

 

“Don’t think too long, college boy. It’s not that far to Pottawatomie Creek.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Sentinels – Part Four

 

~

 

Sam walked down a flight of stairs, into the basement. The stairs were old and had been disused for a long time, but there was a set of footprints in the dust for him to follow.

 

Off to his left was a door; the basement apartment. He entered the room; the air was stale and musty, but nonetheless – and despite all the dust and cobwebs – there was a strange sense of sterility. Nothing in this room had been moved or changed in a _very_ long time, and it was like that long before the house was abandoned. The dead girl’s parents had kept it as a shrine to her.

 

From behind him, he heard the clicks of a shotgun being readied to fire. He raised his hands, and slowly turned. There, as he expected, stood his father, aiming the weapon squarely at his chest.

 

The ballet began.

 

“Hi, Dad.”

 

“You’re not my son. You’re a demon.” 

 

“You’re wrong,” said Sam quietly. He moved a little, to his right. John Winchester circled to stay even with him.

 

“I wish I were. But I’m not. You’re not my son.”

 

“How can you say that, Dad?” asked Sam gently. He didn’t want to provoke his father into shooting him; he wanted to keep him talking. He took a few more steps to his right; his father followed.

 

“It’s the truth,” insisted John Winchester. “I used to think you were my son, but you aren’t. You murdered my wife, Dean’s mother. You murdered that poor girl who loved you.”

 

“No,” says Sam quietly. “How can you even think that?” He circled right again, slowly; still his father kept up with him, kept the shotgun trained on him.

 

“It’s the only thing that fits the evidence,” said John Winchester. “You were at the center of both murders. But you weren’t harmed either time.”

 

Sam stood still. His heart was pounding; he was aware that he was breathing shallowly. The ballet had been a complex one, of words and movement, and he had managed to do the impossible: John Winchester was standing with his back to an open door, something no Winchester _ever_ did.

 

Dean walked in. “Hey, Dad,” he said casually.

 

“Get out of here, Dean.” He kept the gun trained on Sam, and didn’t even look at his older son.

 

“Long time no see,” said Dean.

 

“You’re interfering in something you don’t understand. Go upstairs.”

 

“I’ve been keeping busy,” Dean went on.

 

“I’ll explain everything after. _Go upstairs_.”

 

“Yesterday I popped two ghosties,” continued Dean, “and then I jerked off Sam.”

 

John Winchester turned his head and stared at Dean incredulously, eyes wide and jaw slack.

 

“You could really use a haircut,” said Dean.

 

The brothers moved at the same time. Sam bent at the waist, ducking under the rifle, and lunged at their father. Dean grabbed the rifle and pulled the stock up, tackling John Winchester at the same time.

 

The brothers pulled their father to the ground. His shotgun fired uselessly into the ceiling. Chunks of ancient plaster rained down on them.

 

Dean slammed his fist into their father’s face. “What the hell are you _thinking_?”

 

“He’s a demon, Dean! He murdered your mother! We have to kill him!”

 

“NO!” Dean wrenched the shotgun away, and sprang up. Sam scrambled to his feet as well.

 

“I heard that lovely little speech you gave Sam,” said Dean through clenched teeth. “And you know damn well he’s not responsible. ‘Fits the evidence’ my ass.”

 

John Winchester gazed at him. “Did Missouri tell you everything? Did she tell you that the last time you were in Lawrence, Sam couldn’t sense me in her house, even though I was only a room away?”

 

“ _What_?” cried Sam.

 

“Fun little game, isn’t it?” asked Dean bitterly. “We go back home, and Dad’s there practically the whole time, watching us. But sure as hell not helping.”

 

“Tell me why someone as powerfully psychic as Sam couldn’t sense his own father,” said John. “What does that suggest to you?”

 

“Nothing,” said Dean. “It doesn’t mean he’s not your son. And he isn’t a demon – he’s _haunted_. The thing that killed Mom isn’t after our family – it wants _him_. Why? What did you _do_? Did you make a deal with something, or piss something off?”

 

John Winchester shuddered violently, and drew in a gasping breath.

 

“My God,” murmured Sam. “You _did_ do something, didn’t you? What was it? What did you _do_?”

 

“Sins of the father, huh, Dad?” asked Dean. He cracked the rifle open, and the let ammunition fall to the ground. Then he locked and loaded it again, and fired the unexploded shells harmlessly into the floor.

 

“I’m not gonna leave you unarmed,” said Dean. “Sam and I are going to leave now” – he threw Sam the car keys – “and I’ll leave your gun outside, on the lawn. But so help me, if you try to follow us, if you try to hurt either of us, I will kill you myself.”

 

“I’d never hurt you, Dean,” said their father softly.

 

“You’d kill him to get to me,” said Sam, his voice shaking. “And you know it.”

 

“Get upstairs, Sam,” said Dean. “I’m on your tail.” Dean pulled his own gun from his shoulder holster. “I _will_ kill you if you follow us,” he said.

 

He went up the stairs as quickly as he could manage while walking backward, his gun trained on the basement door the whole time. He raced out of the house; Sam already had the car running and the passenger door open for him. Dean threw their father’s rifle on the ground, leapt into the passenger seat, slamming the door, but leaning out the open window. He kept his own gun trained on the house. Their father didn’t come out.

 

Sam drove.

 

~

 

Sam was shaking violently. He’d managed to hold it together long enough to make their getaway. Then Dean had pointed out a nearby hotel, reasoning that the last thing their father would expect would be for them to stop so quickly. And he wouldn’t expect the expensive hotel, either.

 

So Sam had managed to pull into the hotel driveway, letting Dean out to get them a room. Then he lost it.

 

Dean slid back into the passenger seat, room keys in hand. He put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Dude, come on. Drive around back.”

 

They were barely in their hotel room when Dean shoved Sam against the closed door, kissing him roughly. Sam took great, heaving breaths as Dean kissed his neck and throat, running teeth and lips and tongue across and down.

 

Sam pushed him back, toward the closer of the two beds.

 

They struggled out of their clothes, always kissing, kissing hard, fingers fumbling with buttons and finally tearing fabric away.

 

Sam fell longways onto the bed, pulling Dean down with him. They stretched out on the bed, clinging together, a frantic tangle of arms and legs.

 

Dean gave a frustrated little cry. “Why can’t I get _enough_?”

 

Sam rolled them both over. He pressed his mouth to Dean’s, kissing him slowly, dipping his tongue in and out of his brother’s mouth. He felt Dean’s breathing even out.

 

He started kissing his way down Dean’s body, his tongue skimming across hard nipples, hands playing over muscled chest. He kissed lower and lower, biting and sucking and licking, moving his mouth to Dean’s waist, then the outside of his hip, then the inside of his thigh.

 

He reached Dean’s cock.

 

He sat up a little, and looked up at his brother. Dean tried to speak, but couldn’t form words. Sam found his eyes. Dean nodded.

 

Sam let his gaze drop again. He ran his fingers lightly along Dean’s cock, causing his brother to tremble and shiver.

 

He wetted his lips, his tongue.

 

He felt as though he were jumping off a cliff; his blood pounded, his heart raced. And then… then he was overcome with a strange sense of serenity.

 

Sam dipped his head, and took Dean’s cock into his mouth. Dean’s hips jolted up at once, but Sam steadied him. He licked and sucked and nibbled, trying to do all of the things he loved having done to him.

 

And then all at once, Dean was coming, crying out in pleasure, pounding his fists into the mattress. Sam stretched out across him, kissing him on the mouth, coaxing every last bit of pleasure from him.

 

Dean’s body stilled, and Sam raised his head.

 

“Are you ready?”

 

“Ready?” asked Dean. His eyes were hazy.

 

Sam kissed his way down Dean’s body again, this time much more quickly. He spread Dean’s legs. Dean made a little noise.

 

Sam looked up again. “I know what I’m doing,” he said softly. “It’ll be all right.”

 

Sam teased him and coaxed him, getting him ready. Then slowly, in tender increments, he slid his cock into Dean’s body.

 

Dean whimpered and moaned in pleasure. Sam set the rhythm, slowly at first, rocking their hips together and gently petting Dean’s cock. As Dean got harder, Sam quickened the pace, thrusting faster and faster, until –

 

He threw his head back, his face the very picture of ecstasy. He felt Dean climax again beneath him.

 

He pulled out gently, and lay down next to Dean. They kissed.

 

“That was fucking amazing,” breathed Dean. After a few more moments, he asked, “Where did you – ?”

 

“Jess,” said Sam. He grinned. “Unlike you, I know more than one position.”

 

“Fuck you,” said Dean cheerfully.

 

“Just did.”

 

“Oh, is _that_ what that was? I thought you were trying to reach past me to get the remote.”

 

Sam hit him with a pillow.

 

“Next time,” said Dean, “you’re the girl.”

 

“There’s no _girl_ , Dean.”

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

“And what makes you think there’ll be a next time?”

 

“You see our lives getting any saner?” countered Dean.

 

“Guess not,” admitted Sam.

 

Dean sighed deeply. “You know I’m right… Oh, man, I gotta sleep.”

 

“You _could_ thank me.”

 

“Just did.”

 

They slept.

 

~

 

Sam stepped out of the shower.

 

The wonderful thing about nice hotels, he decided, was the towels. They were generally the same size the ones you got in cheap motels, but they were never threadbare, and they never had worrying stains on them. And there were always a lot more of them, so he was assured of fresh towels, even though Dean had apparently been running some sort of experiment to see how many he could use after one shower.

 

Sam tied a towel around his waist, and ran a smaller one through his hair. He stepped out into the room. Dean was settled on the other bed, resting his head on his arms, and wearing only underpants. He was watching TV with the sound down.

 

“This place comes with a GameBoy,” he said excitedly when he saw Sam. “We could play later.”

 

Sam nodded. “Rock.” He settled on the bed next to his brother.

 

“You smell nice,” said Dean.

 

“You coming on to me?”

 

“Don’t know. Maybe. Depends what kinds of games they’ve got on that thing.”

 

“I have to admit, I’m pretty sick of ‘Ghost Hunters’.”

 

“It’s so unrealistic,” complained Dean. “And the graphics suck.”

 

“Do you think he was right?”

 

Dean stared at him. “Sorry, lost you on the one-eighty spin there. Was who right about what?”

 

“You know what I mean,” said Sam. “Dad. What if he’s right about me?”

 

Dean snorted. “Well, you’re a demon in the sack, but that’s something else.”

 

Sam reached over and thumped Dean’s chest.

 

“Why couldn’t I sense him? What if he’s right – what if he’s not my father?”

 

Dean sat up. “If he’s not, I don’t see how it’s your fault. And it doesn’t make you a demon, for chrissakes.”

 

“What do you suppose Dad did?” Sam asked quietly.

 

“I don’t know,” said Dean in the same tone. “All I could think about was getting us both out of there alive. We should have asked _questions_.”

 

“Next time we see him, _we_ set it up,” said Sam. “We control it. Then it’ll be safe to ask.”

 

Dean groaned. “We’re going to have to keep looking for him, aren’t we?”

 

“Think so.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

Sam gave a little smile. “Thought you wanted to play video games first.”

 

“No, first I want to eat. Then video games. Then… well, tomorrow morning, I guess we go looking for him again.”

 

Sam stared at the television set. “I really don’t feel like going out.”

 

Dean handed him a plastic card from the bureau. “The joys of room service,” he said, smiling.

 

~

 

Dean drove.

 

In the passenger seat, Sam booted up his laptop. “Ahhhhh, new battery,” he said happily. “Bakery fresh. Hey, got an email from Gloria.”

 

“No more waitering gigs, I don’t care _how_ much money she offers.”

 

“No, it’s a thank-you. She held a big party and no one got stabbed. She couldn’t be happier.”

 

“Rich people have such strange priorities.”

 

“‘The rich are different from you and me,’” quoted Sam.

 

“And time is like a bramble thicket,” replied Dean. “You got anything?”

 

“Let’s see… oh, _damn_.”

 

“What?”

 

“You know that hotel in Bethesda, the one that’s supposedly haunted by the ghost of a chambermaid?”

 

“The one who sleeps with single male guests? I always wanted to go there.”

 

“The manager just got busted on a prostitution rap.”

 

“No ghost?” asked Dean.

 

“Call girls in maid uniforms.”

 

“That’s so depressing,” said Dean. “Another dream dies.”

 

“This is weird… I never noticed before…”

 

“What?”

 

“You don’t think we were named after Dean Martin and Sammy Davis, Jr., do you?”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“Oh, there’s supposedly a Rat Pack haunting in Atlantic City.”

 

“We are _not_ going there,” said Dean firmly. “And how can you have not noticed before? You’ve had twenty-two _years_ to notice.”

 

“I have no idea where to look for Dad,” said Sam.

 

“Dude, we have _got_ to do something about that caffeine intake,” said Dean. “You’re making my head spin.”

 

“My instinct says go east.”

 

“Mine says go west.”

 

They sat in silence.

 

“What do you say we split the difference, and go north?” asked Dean.

 

“I knew you were going to say that.”

 

“Just find us a gig, college boy.”

 

Sam tapped the keys of the computer, searching. The road opened up wide and empty in front of them; Dean floored it.

 

The black car sped toward the horizon, bearing the brothers Winchester northward.


End file.
